


Talks Between the Dead and the Dying

by SoftRegard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn loves to hear himself talk, Conversations, Gen, Ghosts, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftRegard/pseuds/SoftRegard
Summary: Ardyn takes to chatting with ghosts, on occasion.





	Talks Between the Dead and the Dying

He’s in Gralea, standing by the window of a top-floor meeting room when he feels the distinct chill in the air - the one that harkens the arrival of the dead. It’s been a while since he’s had such a visitor, and he wonders who it is this time.  

“Ah,” Ardyn then feels a familiar presence at his back, one he hasn’t felt in two millennia. “So death has finally come for you, then.”

“I have elected to pass on,” says Gilgamesh, and the smooth sound of his voice almost makes something in Ardyn warm in nostalgia. Almost. “Now that the Chosen King has come into the world.”

Ardyn hums, “Have you seen him then? Is he everything you’ve been hoping for?”

“I have not,” Gilgamesh says, simply. “But I have tested the mettle of his Shield.”

“And what have you found, my old friend?”

“If one’s greatness is demonstrated by the company he keeps, then the Chosen is great indeed.”

Ardyn nods, hair fluttering over his shoulders, as he finally turns to take in that familiar face, pale and impassive as ever. Time and arcane mettling have changed his form - Gilgamesh was never so tall, and his skin was never so white - but the essence of him sings from his posture and stern eyes. The ever-serious purse of his lips, too, ring true. 

“What a terribly long wait for you,” Ardyn murmurs, looking down at his nails. “I would know, I’ve waited just as long. Longer, now that you’ve properly died.”

“You never visited.”

“Did you want me to?”

“No. Merely a curiosity, considering your penchant for tormenting people with your presence.”

“Oh, how I’ve missed that barbed tongue of yours, my dear.”

“Few could stand up to a lashing as well as you,” says Gilgamesh, and there’s a trace of that old humour. They’d gotten along swimmingly, back then, before destiny intervened. “Perhaps the sole thing I could compliment you on.”

“Funny, you used to heap endless praise upon me back in the day,” Ardyn smiles, though even he can feel how empty is, how falsely it rests on his face.

“That was before you let bitterness poison you.”

“That would be the daemons, Gil - surely you remember those?”

“No. The daemons began the process, but the rest was all you, Ardyn,” he frowns. “The Immortal Accursed did not come from one source alone - it came from the union of daemons and human heartache.” 

“Ah, always the lecturer,” Ardyn chuckles, though the humour in it is faint at best. “You always did love the sound of your own voice, no matter how much you refused to admit it.”

“I learned from the best.”

Ardyn turns back to the window, looking out into the night time city lights. “Do you remember what used to stand here?” he asks, taking his mind back some two thousand years, imagining all the buildings outside coming into being - but in reverse, the way flesh decays and sloughs off bones over time. He remembers when most of them used to be little more than metal beams, drawings on paper before that, huts of stone before that, and before that…

“That garden patch you used to love,” says Gilgamesh. “You always took the time to take a stroll through it when you visited this part of continent.”

“Yes,” Ardyn strokes his chin, imagines long stretches grass and flowers ahead of him; the smell of soil, and the sound of hummingbirds. Sunlight, beating down on the black of his coat - sweltering and uncomfortable, as a man. Now, he can walk across the lava of Ravatogh and scarcely feel a thing. “I believe you accompanied me once or twice.”

“As did Somnus.”

“Yes, as did Somnus.”

There is a pregnant pause, before Gilgamesh says, somber, “He was never the monster you made him out to be.”

“I never said he was a monster,” there had been so few trees in this part of the land, that the townspeople had planted some to make spaces for shade. He remembers the bench he used to sit on, to read when the days were long - that spot now hosts a bank. Vaguely, he wonders what will be become of it in another two millennia, and if he’ll be cursed to see it. “A wayward, jealous little man yes - but not a monster; that would be  _ me _ , remember?”

To punctuate his point, he gives Gilgamesh a heady glance and lets the blackness of the ichor seep from his pores. Not that the ghost seems particularly perturbed, as though it were a mere parlour trick. And perhaps it is, in the face of everything Gilgamesh has seen - Ardyn thinks he might like to ask him about it sometime, if he were amenable to a friendly conversation.

“No monster could inflict such wounds on the heart and soul,” he continues, and he reins back the warping in his voice, lest Gilgamesh think he was being  _ emotional _ . “If my brother were a monster, I may have been able to forgive him.”

“And so you made yourself one, instead,” says Gilgamesh, dully.

“So strong was the hurt, yes,” responds Ardyn, brightly. “That I had to change the shape of me just to bear it.” 

Gilgamesh sighs, “Like a beast from the old fairy tales.”

“More or less.”

“You’ve always loved drama,” he murmurs. “Somnus was never ‘jealous’ or ‘wayward’ - he had been given a calling.”

“A calling that was not his to answer.”

“But it was,” he says - and Ardyn loves Gilgamesh, the man who never gentled himself to soothe others. “It changed hands.”

“There were forces behind such a decision,” says Ardyn, clipped. “And Somnus elected lay his loyalty at their feet instead of mine.”

“He was to deny the will of the gods?”

“Why not?” Ardyn shrugs, grandly. “I did.”

Gilgamesh gives him a look, heavy with judgement and pity: “And look at you now.”

*

He’s walking on the train tracks toward Cartanica Station, whistling a long-forgotten tune when she appears before him. 

“I was wondering when you would show up, my dear,” he says, coming to a stop and giving her a small bow; the wise little girl, the beauty in white. Why, she still has that wound in her belly. 

“I considered not coming at all,” says Lunafreya, her mouth dipped into a pretty little frown.

“Then why did you?” he asks. “You deserve a good long rest, after all. I would hardly be offended, princess.” 

“I am given to understand that very little would offend you.”

“Once upon a time,” he begins to walk again, and he passes through her with little more than a faint chill as evidence of her presence. The sound of her heels follows behind him as he goes. “A great many things offended me: corruption, greed, war, helplessness. I eventually came to realize, however, that  _ betrayal _ is the worst offence of all - all else, I could bear, but that? Oh no. Never.”

She catches up to him, walking at his side. That dress is quite lovely, moving with the delicate sway of her hips. 

“And what offends you now?” she asks, serene. “You’ve made yourself into something quite above betrayal, I should think.”

“ _ I _ did?” he laughs. “I can’t take all the credit - your precious gods did their fair share, as did their crystal.”

“Is it always the fault of others?” she sounds sincere when she asks. “Are you accountable for none of it?”

“Am I to be like you, then?” he shakes his head with a smile. “Throwing myself on pyre after pyre, bearing the weight of everyone’s expectations, only to die a thankless, undignified death?”

Her face scrunches up into something approaching cross, “Dying was your doing.”

“Oh come now,” he waves a hand. “You were well on your way before that, darling. Don’t forget who formed those covenants long before you were ever born.”

“You would have been content to do it until the end of your life,” she says. “And yet, you now speak of such a duty with disdain.”

“It too, was taken from me,” he shrugs. “Given to a young woman who could barely withstand the weight of responsibility.”

“You speak of my predecessors.”

“The First Oracle looked very much like you,” he says, softly, coming to a stop and looking at her. “I knew her when she was a girl, you see - I even taught her her letters, in secret of course,” he gives her a rueful smile, for a moment seeing a face that isn’t there. “It was frowned upon for women to read, but she had a talent for it.”

“And what happened to that man?” she asks, though he knows that she’s more than aware of the answer. Divine wisdom, and all of that. “There is something left of him inside you - how far beneath the daemons and anger is he buried?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” he asks, then gestures to the bloodstain on her flank. “After all, you gave a valiant effort at finding out. Tell me, how far beneath that veneer of virtuousness does  _ your _ human heart lie? Or has the divine calling spoiled that part of you, too?”

He gives her a look, harsher than he intends - but something about Oracles has always made his hackles rise, “How far could I dig into you until I found what I was looking for?”

She studies his face for a moment, uncovering his meaning, “You mean to say my flaws?”

“Such as they are.”

“I’ve never buried them,” she says, and her calmness makes him grind his teeth. “The divine bestow their grace unto us for our humanity, not in spite of it.”

“And what of me?” he asks, raising a brow. “Was I not human enough, when the time came to bequeath that honour onto my brother instead of me? What do you think, my lady?”

Lunafreya pauses, eyes roving over his form - and in a moment, he sees something from her he never did while she’d been alive: pettiness. Her eyes are hard, and when she responds she sounds every bit the angry young woman she would’ve been in another life, “I shall not speak of matters beyond my station.” 

She disappears, satisfied with the last word.

*

“Rejection hurts, doesn’t it?” 

He turns and saunters out of the room, enjoying the sound of fluttering papers at his back as he goes. It’s not long before the familiar sound of heels manifests at his side, impossibly keeping up with his stride despite his much longer legs. He spares her a glance, at those delicate hands clasped at her front; her nails are biting into her skin with how hard she clutches herself. Poor thing.  

“That was needlessly cruel of you,” she says. To her credit, she keeps a tight leash on her grief when she speaks - her voice has barely a waver. Truly, the noble class teach their girls well. Was it the case back in his day? 

He finds he doesn’t remember. 

“He spent his whole life making mistake after mistake,” says Ardyn, smirking. “It is only fitting that he dies believing he’s made yet another one. And besides - you can be reunited now, princess. This calls for a smile, yes?”

She doesn’t, in fact, grant him a smile.

*

Ravus appears when Ardyn has set up his veritable gallery of corpses; he’s has Ulric, Aldercapt, and Regis. But someone is missing.

He surveys Ardyn’s work with an unimpressed eye, and sniffs, “I don’t merit an appearance, then?”

“Feeling left out?” Ardyn smiles, enjoying the sight of him there. His stiffness has always reminded him of Gilgamesh - another one who just didn’t know how to relax. “My dear commander, do loosen up won’t you? Death is supposed to be truest form of freedom - try to enjoy it.”

Ravus’ lips thin themselves into a sharp, cold little dash across his face, “I shall endeavor to enjoy myself, then, when the Chosen King stabs you in the heart.”

Ardyn, despite himself, finds that to be the most amusing thing Ravus has ever said, so he has the grace to chuckle. Always indulge good humour, is the rule of court, for you may never see it again otherwise. 

“You once told me I had no heart,” he says, steepling his fingers in front of himself. “Have you changed your mind?”

Ravus rolls his eyes, an undignified gesture for such a dignified man. Voice clipped, he snaps, “Then I shall amend: when the Chosen King stabs you in whatever  _ passes _ for a heart in that despicable shell you call a body.”

A chuckle turns into a true laugh, at that. It isn’t as though the ghost is lying - the state of Ardyn’s heart has been a mystery for a long time now, even to him. For all he knows, the daemons have devoured it a long time ago, leaving only scraps of flesh behind - like the remains of a half-eaten, rotted fruit. Perhaps the itching under his skin are the flies, desperate to leave now that they’ve had their fill. 

He’d oblige and let them loose, but alas, the world is terribly unfair. 

“You are awful for one’s self image, Ravus,” he smiles, feeling the ichor rush from his mouth and down his chin like a burning streak of tar. “I entertain you as a guest in my throne room, and you insult my  _ looks _ ? I had assumed men raised with sisters would be better-mannered than that,” he raises a sardonic brow. 

“Oh,” he continues, remembering. “Speaking of sisters.”

With a snap of his fingers, Lunafreya’s body joins the line. He thinks the white tatters of her dress looks rather fetching against the rich black of the room’s marble. 

Ravus, it would seem, does not agree - if the way his upper lip curls into a snarl is any indication.

“You vile, wretched -”

“Oh, that’s enough of you now,” Ardyn claps, and the furious ghost dissipates mid-speech.  

Wheedling Ravus hasn’t lost its charms even death, it seems.  

*

How like Noctis, to keep him waiting even now - when he’s been so graciously killed and awaiting their final confrontation in the Beyond. Surely goodbyes to one’s retinue can’t take  _ this _ long, can they? Floating around in a great blue abyss yields very little to do to pass the time, and Kings shouldn’t keep people waiting. 

But ah, what is another few moments in the wake of two thousand years, really? 

“Are you anticipating your reunion?” he asks, as Lunafreya coalesces before him. Her face is sombre, and for the life of him, he cannot imagine why. “It’s been some time, after all. And he’s grown rather handsome in his age, if I do say so myself.”

“It comes at the expense of his life,” she murmurs, still looking upon his face with that forlorn expression. “I cannot find it within myself to feel happiness at such a thing, no matter how much I miss him.”

“Ah, do you know I had rather forgotten about that part?” he hadn’t, but he tries out the little fib to see if her expression changes. It doesn’t. “My dear, what is that look on your face?”

She doesn’t respond, and a thought ruthlessly barrels its way into his head.

“Oh dear,” he brings a hand to his chest, raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh dear, oh dear - are you feeling  _ sorry _ for me?”

“I’ve always felt sorry for you,” she says, without malice. “Even in life.”

There’s an abrupt explosion of noise in the distance, almost like a thunderclap - the Chosen King has arrived. Ardyn wonders if it there had been any pain - for him, it’d been rather like going to sleep. 

“Spare me your pity, dear Oracle,” he murmurs, watching the roiling blue mass around them, feeling something like true excitement burning in his chest. He hasn’t felt such a thing in many lifetimes. “I outgrew such things a long time ago.” 

“Regardless,” Lunafreya says, eyes on his - gentler than he deserves, and he looks back in wonderment. “I will bless your passing as I would any other - for even you should know peace.” 

He laughs, elated: “Then I shall see you on the other side, young queen.”

“You shall,” she curtsies. “Farewell.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little experiment as I hit some roadblocks with other writing. Thanks for reading <3


End file.
